Paraphilia
by LandBeyondtheForest
Summary: Series of one-shots about the good doctor.
1. Paraphilia

**Paraphilia**

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Warnings: Implied kidnapping and Crane generally being a creeper.

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As she came to, her foggy mind perceived first the angry pelting of rain, beating bedlam upon the asylum windows somewhere maddeningly out of sight. The stale air stifled her. This darkened room could have been a tomb. Only the faint sound of bubbling and an occasional eruption of the clack-clack-clacking of metal instruments on glass let her know that she was surely not alone. Once beneath the clangor she thought she had heard a soft chuckle. Minutes grew into hours as she tried desperately to remain still in her uncomfortable bonds, amidst the prickle of fear that crept insolently down her neck, filling her chest with heaviness before settling deep in the pit of her stomach. But when at last she scented the tell-tale caustic stench of the Scarecrow's latest batch of toxin, she found that she could not suppress a shudder. After one last tinkling of glass the bubbling ceased. She steeled herself for the worst but still started violently when his cold, hard hand seized her bare neck.

"I'm sorry for giving you a fright," whispered a silky voice, somewhere just behind her ear.

Panicking in earnest now, she began struggling wildly against the leather strapping her so surely to the metal table.

"Now, now," came his newly feverish voice, "You can't leave here without taking your medicine."

She heard a syringe cap pop off and land unceremoniously on the stone floor.

"I know you've been reading my notes about my special concoction. Well," he pulled her neck sharply to the side, "I've made some just for you."

Without warning, the needle plunged into the compliant flesh of her neck with deadly purpose. Soon after, a dingy light sprang into life overhead, so that she had a second's view of the crumbling walls as well as the frenzied stare of her tormentor before the room began to melt. Now her breath came in long, ragged draughts not unlike that of the exultant figure hovering over her. She felt his every breath whisper across her cheek before her reeling mind transfigured it into a new horror. Spiders crawling a trail down to underneath her shirt collar. Dirty fingernails scratching the length of her face. The flutter of a crow's wing promising a fury of claws. When the rain's assault against the windows became a deafening chorus of damned voices, she finally cried aloud, long and harsh.

"Yes," he moaned covetously. "Give it up to me."

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A/N: I realize this is probably OOC for Nolanverse Crane but I'm finding him a bit difficult to write because he didn't get enough screen time in Batman Begins. I'm much better versed in the comics. I guess we'll see what happens with TDKR but I can't see it opening weekend...

Please do review if you're so inclined. I'm thinking of making a series of one-shots.


	2. Murder

Thanks to all the lovely people who messaged me about my last post. I'm glad someone enjoyed it. :3 I'm still quite new to this but here goes another one

This short piece is based on the musing, "What if Batman had thrown Dr. Crane to his former patients to teach him a lesson?"

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"Taste of your own medicine doctor?" the Bat snarled as he forced Dr. Jonathan Crane into the hallway of the large second floor ward. All around them were the disturbed patients' yells, hoots and maniacal threats. The Bat turned sharply away from him and before Jonathan knew what the vigilante was doing, he had grabbed the doctor's keys and accessed the emergency function to release the watching inmates.

Slowly, the first few inmates lurched through the doors of their open cells. Jonathan froze. A sickly creeping feeling pulled at his heart. The leering faces of his former "patients" pressed in on all sides and he tried to back away. There was a surreal silence that seemed to go on and on and then he felt the first kick to his ribs. It sent him flying back into the waiting clutches of the wall of madmen that had come up behind him. Suddenly it was like the room fell in on him. He was engulfed by furiously pounding fists.

Gripped everywhere by strange hands. Nails tearing cloth, breaking flesh to draw blood. Something hit his face hard and he felt his nose begin to gush as a pair of hands snaked around his slight neck. There was a rushing sound in his ears. He looked frantically for a way out. The stench of unwashed bodies mingled with the scent of his own blood. He heard his heart pounding in his throat as the strange feeling in his gut intensified. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if he was about to die.

Then all at once he knew. He smiled. The feeling resonated in him, filling him with a strange sense of clarity. He was afraid.

It was a long time since he had been on the receiving end of true terror and for a moment he basked in it, even as the crazed mob continued to pummel him, breaking bones. The room spun as he struggled weakly and the faces around him blurred into a single writhing swarm. Suddenly there was a great crash overhead, glass rained down and Jonathan froze in terror as he saw a furious mass of birds stream in from the broken windows, descending upon him like a dark cloud. Soon everywhere around him was a whirl of black. Their talons dug into the flesh of his arms, his chest. Soon his back was a mass of bleeding scratches and he screamed as he felt beaks searching for his eyes. The raging crows split the flesh of his cheeks, coarse feathers sticking to the wounds. They continued their monstrous attack until he looked down to see the bones of his forearms exposed.

He was still huddled in a ball on the floor when Gordon and his men burst into the hallway. The noise of flapping wings retreated, the birds' glowing eyes fading out of his vision. Gordon's officers beat the mob of inmates back and two policemen hauled him shuddering to his feet. He saw the state of himself reflected in the stares of those surrounding him.

Horrified he raised a hand to his face but felt the skin was intact, and he noticed that the flesh of his arms was once again whole. But passing a hand over the torn fabric of his suit jacket and the bloody tatters of his shirt, he imagined he must look finally the way he ought to. Not uncomfortably wrapped in the starched collars and shined shoes of a professional. His hair had long lost its prim part. It felt right. Like he had finally decided to be a good, honest sociopath.

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If anyone knows how to add more spaces to these weird story documents please let me know. This format is really bothering me.


	3. Psychopathia Sexualis

Her heels dragged weakly across the floorboards. She was trying pathetically to wriggle out of the chair he had her strapped to, the ropes about her middle rubbing her tiny waist raw, one heeled shoe slipping off and dangling from her petite toes.

She had been his doctor. It was because she'd had the audacity to tell him he was ill that she found herself in his care now. It had been easy enough to slip into her apartment before she got home from her shift at Arkham and even easier to bind and gag her and drag her back to his new home in an abandoned chemical refinery near the docks.

He looked up from his desk in the corner, staring at her heatedly from the dark and preparing the toxin with practiced ease. She was pleading with him, vainly wringing her bound hands behind her. Her breath was coming in gasps now as she begged him uselessly. Her wide fearful eyes followed the movements of his deft hands, watching him gather onto the desktop first a syringe, then one vial, then another. The dubious contents of the vials he then mixed together before sucking up the mixture into the waiting syringe.

He had spent all of their sessions wondering what secret fears she harbored, imagining the particular pitch and timber of her scream, her perfect skin pale and clammy with terror.

"So what is it that frightens you, doctor?" He spat out the last word as if it offended him. "Darkness? Vermin?" He smirked. "Strange men?"

She broke into a cold sweat as he approached her with the syringe full of sinister dark liquid. He looked down into her sweet face.

"Please," she pleaded through tears, "don't do this to me." She gazed up from beneath her princess curls. He paused for a second to take in her pleas, blue eyes fixing her in a hard stare.

His face was a mask of indifference but she could sense his excitement as he pierced her skin with the needle, first pulling back on the plunger to mix her blood with the foul concoction before pushing down and forcing the whole sick mess into her veins. She scented his sweat, his breath mixed with his aftershave when he moved closer to her face to observe her.

The fear washed over her almost immediately, shaking her small frame with violent tremors. She screamed and he took the opportunity to put his tongue in her mouth. She continued in a pent up shriek as he kissed her roughly before biting down sharply on her tongue, drawing blood. It dripped thinly from the corner of her mouth to join the streaks of her running mascara. She flailed frantically. The toxin was taking effect in earnest now.

He quickly undid the binds trapping her hands and holding her to the chair and dumped her onto the dirty floor. He watched excitedly as she writhed, dragging her nails across her face in her terror. A warm contented feeling crept into his insides.

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I feel like these should be longer but when they are they don't go anywhere. -_-'


	4. The Joker

A/N: This piece is based on a certain few pages from the Knightfall comic arc, Detective Comics #664, but you needn't have read it.

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"Come on, Jonny, let's move," said the Joker, grabbing Crane by the neck of his coat and shoving him ahead down the long hallway. "Not long before a certain visitor comes looking for us. Hope not on a conjugal visit." He crowed with laughter.

Crane rolled his eyes and grimaced at the physical contact. He couldn't wait to shut the clown up. He had only volunteered to lend his particular expertise to this escape attempt for one reason. If everything went according to plan he would soon have the Joker trembling in fear. He struggled to ignore the Joker's constant maniacal musings but picked up his pace. The fork that the demented clown had stuck into the night guard's eye wouldn't keep him busy forever and soon the whole asylum would know they were loose. They had to hurry to make it out of Arkham before the Bat made it in.

They shuffled down the empty hallways of Arkham in the dead of night, both in makeshift costumes and looking like living nightmares, which Crane supposed they really were. Running, Crane smashed into a fire door, throwing it open and finally both of them burst out into the open night. They ran across Arkham's huge lawn, moving quickly past the infirmary. Crane rushed ahead and when the Joker turned the corner around the back of the building he ran straight into a cloud of fear gas.

The Joker stumbled and coughed. At first the silence of night leveled on the scene as both figures came to a halt and simply stared each other down. Then Crane could just make out in the dark a singularly novel expression on the Joker's painted face.

"Now you'll show me all your fears," Scarecrow said slowly, the mask muffling his gloating voice. He savored the Joker's look of dazed unease. What did this man fear? What made a mass murderer's skin crawl, his mouth dry up as he screamed himself hoarse? The Bat? Or something deeper...something buried? The Scarecrow waited eagerly in the darkness for the Joker's chorus of shrieks.

A roar of rage met his ears instead, while a fist met his stomach. The blow knocked the breath out of his spindly frame as he doubled over.

"I don't understand!" he managed to gasp, but then the clown's knee connected with his forehead and he stumbled backward and the madman proceeded to give him the beating of his life, stomping on his skinny ribs, kicking him full in the face and throwing him head first into the rough old brick of the infirmary.

"You tried to trick _me_ Jonny? That's not very funny, Jonny,"—he punctuated every growled word with a strike—"that's-not-very-funny!"

Falling heavily to the ground, Crane coughed and spat blood from behind his burlap mask. He was beginning to think this had been a bad idea. The sound of a switchblade opening jerked him from the realization. The Joker had come right up to stare at him closely. He recoiled from the closeness to the other man's corpse painted, scarred face and crazed eyes. Why wasn't the toxin affecting him properly? He braced himself for another attack but the Joker just cackled and hooted, tore the mask from Crane's head and sprayed Crane's own toxin in his face.

"No," was all Crane managed before the darkness swam around him, his vision narrowing fast while the Joker's howls of laughter echoed around him, growing distorted and inhuman. His heart pounded and he felt tension flash through his body, wringing his stomach, which threatened to disgorge its contents. Soon the laughing voice grew higher in pitch, childish. Then he heard it.

"Scarecrow…..scarecrow!" a small voice mocked.

"No!" he yelled back at the blackness. He turned about trying to find the source of the voice, a merciless voice from his boyhood.

"Scarecrow, scarecrow!" taunted a child who had appeared a short distance away, her back to him. He stumbled toward her aimlessly and she turned. He beheld a melting face, and a mouthful of horrible filthy teeth set in a crow's beak. Flames licked up the thing's body, and he remembered his childhood, Grannie Keeny's threats of hellfire. All at once he felt again like the small frightened boy she had tormented. Alone, different and terrified.

"Scarecrow, scarecrow!"

The cawing of furious crows rose in the background. Frantically he looked up, searching for the murderous flock but the melting girl now advanced on him. Then suddenly he was engulfed by a choir of "scarecrows" and more monstrous children came from everywhere to surround him, the long shadows they cast on the ground rearing up to block out all light, towering over him like reapers. A sickening chill crept up the back of his neck when he felt a sinister sharp pain in his stomach and looked down to see a child's hand fast around a knife that she had sunk into his belly. He choked out a cry of disbelief and pulled out the knife, now frantically slashing at the chanting mob around him, but everywhere he made a cut, roaches and flies spilled from the wound. The vermin crawled up his legs, more and more streaming up his form, until they reached his face, swarming into his open mouth to gag his screams. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision and he collapsed, his last sight one of a swirling black cape and a large, dark figure flying at the hideous mob with outstretched fists.

* * *

When he awoke, he recognized he was lying in the Arkham infirmary. The chanting mob was gone and his throat was clear, all hallucinations gone. He shifted in the bed where he lie and cried out in pain. The knife wound in his stomach was very real. He wouldn't be checking himself out of Arkham for quite some time now. Still it had all been worth it for the unmistakable look of fear on the Joker's face and the knowledge that, whatever it was that frightened the clown, Crane had shown it to him. As he lay back and drifted off to sleep, crazed peals of laughter echoed down the hall.

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A/N: I'm totally open to suggestions for scenarios since I'm writing these rather aimlessly for fun. Although I am being unusually productive. I think I'll be incorporating other villains some more.


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